"You did it, you bastard. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have slit your girlfriend's tires."

Myron talked to the cops while they were loading Vince into the back of the cruiser, but his words had little effect. Shortly thereafter, a tow truck pulled in and loaded Vince's bike for a short ride to the impound lot. Chance ignored the screaming bitch and said to Myron, "We don't have a dime. I can't bail him out."

"Any interest in selling your rigid?" Myron asked.

"Ya know," Chance hesitated and looked over at his shiny black pride dripping a constant stream of rainwater, then back at Myron. "That could work, I suppose. Anything for a brother."

"I may know someone who'd jump on it."

Chance stood in the driving rain while Myron dashed inside to make a call. On his way in the glass door, he confronted the redhead. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" His dark eyes narrowed. She turned and glared at him, but she could see that he was a man who would rather smack her than look twice. Her eyes drifted to the pavement and she turned away. Her thin hair was plastered to the sides of her strained, narrow face and her shoulders were hunched.

Chance was soaked to the bone. He shivered with cold and fatigue. She saw her opportunity and ran to his side. He took a step backward and stumbled over the parking block, almost falling through the picture window in front of Easyriders of Scottsdale.

"What do you want?" he asked as she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him against her slim form. Her lipstick was smeared about her lips as if a mad woman had applied it. The effect was enhanced by the running streaks of mascara. "You know what I want!" Her eyes pleaded but her mouth turned to rage. "It's all your fucking fault," she spat and pounded her small fists against his chest. "I could never trust you. I hate you. I hate you!"

He leaned against the rough stucco, his shades dripping rainwater. "If you hate me, just leave me alone," Chance muttered. He was still attracted to her, but her furious outbursts were too much to handle and he knew they would only escalate. He was his own man and had never taken abuse from any woman. This was new to him.

She stormed back into the bar, grumbling about Chance being unfaithful.

Chance had been pushing himself for weeks and found himself smack in the middle of an emotional low, but he knew he had to get out of there before she returned. Sparky, the mechanic, punched Chance in the shoulder. "Wanna get that sled out of the rain before it floats away?"

"Yeah."

"Is it unlocked?" the gray-bearded mechanic asked.

"Yep."

Sparky looked the big man over, saw a graying in Chance's usually warm skin tone and noticed how his legs buckled from time to time. He pushed the rigid around back and called into the shop. "Better get Chance a hot shower and a bed before he falls down."

Myron came out of the shop, pushed Chance into a lowered Chevy pickup and drove to the nearest motel. He registered the big man, tossed him the key and shoved him into the drab stucco room with his bedroll. Chance managed to mumble thanks as Myron closed the door and left. Chance pulled off his rain-soaked jacket and it fell to the deck like a Pacific seal flopping along the side of a tide pool. He stripped out of his clothes then noticed that his bedroll was completely wet and so were all the clothes. He called the manager's office. The cleaning staff was gone. He took a shower, then another one. He discovered that he was so cold that while he allowed the hot spray to thaw his front, the rear was shivering. He shifted back and forth, then again, until he heard a knock on the door. A short, dark-haired girl stood at the door, the rain still pelting the asphalt behind her. She suspiciously eyed the tall man dressed only in a towel, then a smile crossed her face and her dark eyes opened wide. "You have clothes to dry, seņor?" Chance tried to focus on her dimpled cheeks and smooth complexion. The penetrating warmth of the shower had enhanced his deep fatigue. "Uh, yep, you're right, come in," he said, not realizing that he was nearly nude. She hesitated and followed. Quietly she gathered up his belongings and left, but a lingering message remained as she departed, promising to return. The phone began to ring between the two beds and Chance flopped down to answer it. "Yep?" he said.

"Hey, it's me," Vince said. "You've got to get me out of here."

"I'm working on it," Chance said. "What's the bail?"

"I need a couple of grand," Vince said from inside a polished corridor without windows. He was in the Phoenix City Jail.

"What's the deal?" Chance said.

"I don't know," Vince said. "They didn't have anything on me until they booked me."

"Whatta ya mean, until they booked ya?'" Chance snapped.

"Well, these cops started pushin' me around so I popped one. Then they worked me over and stuck me in this cell with this thug who started asking a lot of questions. I refused to answer so he started to get rough, and we went at it. I held my own, but now they want to press charges." Vince's voice was anxious. "You've got to get me out of this fuckin' place."

"I'm working on selling my bike," Chance said.

"Fuck, I hate for you to have to do that," Vince said. "Oh, fuck, I've got to go," and the phone went dead.

Chance hung up and it immediately started to ring again.

"Yeah?" Chance said.

"The bike is sold," Myron said. "I'll have the cash in an hour."

"I'm waiting on dry clothes and we've got to get him out," Chance said. "Call me in an hour, I need some sleep."

Myron hung up and Chance began to pace the small room. The phone rang again. "Yeah?" Chance said.

"You can't hide from me," the shrill voice was like a dagger to Chance's inner ear. "It's your fault all of this happened..."

Chance listened but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. What did she want from him? She didn't say, she never did. She screamed, threatened, blamed, but nothing came out. Chance didn't say anything, just hung up. She'd been a hot lover, but not much of anything else. Parting seemed to be a problem. She knew where he was staying; Chance figured there would be more trouble and soon. He was so tired he could barely reach for the phone again, but inside panic wrestled with the fatigue. He called the front desk. "Can I speak to the girl from housekeeping?"

The operator connected him with the extension. The phone rang and rang. Nothing. Some 45 minutes passed and Myron called back.

"The cash is here."

Chance awoke with a start and mumbled a cotton-mouthed response, "Oh, OK, I'll be along."

He called the desk again. They transferred him to housekeeping -- nothing. He waited, nervous and tired, trapped in a towel in a bland motel room. He knew Red was coming. He could sense herr evil spirit. There was a knock on the door. Chance jumped, then tried to read the knock. Was it aggressive? Was it malicious? Was it the tender knock of a soft-eyed Hispanic girl with ample breasts and a brilliant smile?

He opened the door slightly and saw the Mexican girl standing before him, her arms stacked high with his neatly pressed and folded clothes. He whisked her inside, paid her bill, tipped her heartily and showed her to the door. She looked disappointed. Chance opened the door as a car pulled up in front of his room and slid to a stop on the wet pavement. It was her. Chance pulled the girl toward him. She spun and her chest smacked his bare skin. He kissed her deeply. The SUV wheels spun in place and sped away. "Do you have a car?" Chance said in her ear as he embraced her and looked over her shoulder at the car careening out of the parking lot. She'd be back.

"Si," the girl said, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Can you give me a ride, quick? I just need to put on some clothes."

"Si," she said, her smile broadening. Her dark nipples had become aroused and were pressing stiffly against the fabric of her uniform.

The little Mexican girl with the long, flowing dark hair ran to get her car as Chance pulled on his Wranglers, a sweatshirt, his wet cowboy boots and his soaking vest.

She met him in front of his room in a small pickup. Chance jumped in and ducked as the SUV careened into the parking lot once more. The young girl attempted to leave, but the speeding truck tried to run her into the motel shrubbery.

"Dios mio!" the young girl said, avoiding a crash by inches and speeding into the street. Chance tried to stay down. "Senorita, su loco esposa?"

"No, she's not my wife, and won't ever be my wife. What's your name?"

"Maria," she said. "It's all right to sit up. You are safe now."

Chance sat up and gave her directions to the shop.

"I will see you tonight, no?" Maria said.

"What's your number?" Chance said. "I'll call."

They kissed again and Chance uncoiled his lanky form from the compact truck.

"I've got the cash," Myron said and they jumped in his truck for the cop shop at the far end of town. When the two riders arrived, Vince was standing on the corner in the drizzling rain. "What's up?" Chance shouted as they pulled to the curve.

"Seems they cut me a deal," Vince started. His olive features were lumpy with cuts and bruises. "No charges, clean slate in exchange for my motorcycle. If not, the bail is $100,000 and I sit in jail until trial. I've got to get the fuck out of here!"

"What?" Chance said in dismay as Myron pulled his lowered truck away from the police station. Vince sat in the back rumble seat still cloaked in wet clothes. Out of shouting distance from the headquarters, Chance said to Myron, "Pull over."

"What?" Myron said.

"I said pull over," Chance said, gritting his teeth. Chance turned in his seat and faced his brother in the rear of the extended cab. Vince looked beaten and cold. He was dejected and distraught. The cops had twisted the charges until he was convinced that his life was gone, to be spent for decades behind bars. A felon, the attack on the officer and his cellmate could constitute a three strikes offense. He could be forced to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

"So," Chance said, cross-eyed with anger, "I sold my motorcycle to get you out of jail and you give up your own bike. You realize that we're both out of bikes."

"I'm sorry, brother, but I didn't know what else to do. They were throwing the three strikes beef at me. What the fuck could I do?" Vince was almost breaking down.

"How about call an attorney, for one?" Chance said.

"I can't afford an attorney," Vince said.

Chance got out of the truck and stood on the drying pavement. "I've been in fucked-up situations before, but this one takes the cake."

"Let's start by getting your bike back," Myron said and started the truck.

"Best idea I've heard so far. Then we've got to get your bike back," Chance said, turning to Vince. Vince looked at him, a hopeless expression crossing his dark mug.

They drove along in silence, heading back to the shop. Chance looked out the windshield at the dark clouds moving quickly away from the long, flat Phoenix region. Chance brightened. "I've got it. I remember a story a Hells Angel told me about how he got into a jail to visit a brother."

"Did it do him any good?" Myron asked.

"Nope, got a free donut and pissed off the captain," Chance said. "But the plan is a good one. We just need a licensed repo man. "Know one?"

They pulled up to the shop and Myron went in and called his friend to come get his cash. Chance went out to the service area to make sure the bike was still in the care of Sparky. It was still there. "I knew you'd be back for it," Sparky said, wiping down the stretched rigid.

Myron called some ex-partners and quickly a rider/repo man showed up at the shop. The veteran rider pulled in with a flatbed tow truck.

"We've got to move fast," Chance said, looking at the burley rider's repo business card. It had an official shield in the corner and said CDI in the center with his name beneath it and the title "investigator." "I'm not going in that yard," Big Al said emphatically to Chance.

"Do you ever go into that yard to pick something up?" Chance inquired.

"Nope," Al said, "just make deliveries. Oh, once I had to go in and get a car. I hoisted the wrong one."

"You work with the cops, don't you?" Chance asked.

"Yeah, and once in a while we need to move a vehicle that needs to be fingerprinted," Al said, his eyes beginning to sparkle with inspiration. "I'm not sure, though."

"We don't have time to ponder the downside, we need that bike tonight," Chance said. "Let's get to Kinko's."

Ten minutes later, Chance was back with a laminated official-looking card. He pulled his hair into a ponytail, put on a clean shirt from the shop and headed to the tow truck.

"What can I do?" Myron asked.

"Vince will take my bike back to the motel, get cleaned up and load the bike. He can ride it to where Scottsdale Road intersects the freeway and wait for me," Chance explained. "If I'm not back in one hour, you may need to sell it again for my bail. If not, we'll be on our way out of town in an hour. We need to get across the border into California before the cop with the busted nose knows he didn't score a bike."

Chance jumped into the cab next to Al. "You won't have to do or say anything until we get to the bike, if it's there. If anything goes wrong, just blame the situation on me."

"I'll be holding my breath," Al said.

"Do you know the guy at the gate?" Chance asked.

"Usually," Al said.

"Then just be cool and familiar," Chance said as they pulled up to the impound yard.

They rounded the corner to the gate, the large flatbed diesel jerking as Al stumbled nervously through the gears. The truck screeched to the gate. An officer came out of the office. "Nothing to deliver, Al?"

"Nope," he said. "We need to pick up the Harley that was delivered a couple of hours ago, for fingerprinting," Chance said.

"There's a lot of interest in that bike," the officer said. "Some detectives have already been over a couple of times to look at it."

"That's right," Chance said, "the owner may be going down for the final time."

"Who are you?" the officer said, looking directly at Chance.

"Milfred Hogan, CDI," and Chance handed him the laminated card.

"All right Al," the officer said, "another biker down. It serves those bastards right."

The gate rose in front of the two and the truck lurched forward, Al's gears grinding. "We need to move fast," Al said, "he may call the station and confirm."

"I'll jump out and ready the bike. You get this puppy jacked up," Chance said.

Chance leapt to the asphalt and looked around at the dusty, muddy array of vehicles waiting for their guilty owners to pay for their freedom. The black Street Stalker stood proudly, surrounded by rusting hulks. Even after 400 miles of rain, the bike glistened. Chance pulled on the handlebars, his worst nightmare realized. The bike was locked. "Fuck!" he said. The sharp word stung at Al's back and he turned.

"The bike's locked," Chance said, throwing his arms in the air. Al turned and tossed something to Chance. The bolt cutters landed at Chance's feet. He snatched them off the hot pavement and bent to take care of business while the compressor spun and the air pressure system tilted the bed of the tow truck. Chance pushed the Harley to the center of the bed, then backed up and pushed it onto the ramp. With the rear wheel a few inches onto the slippery grating, Chance pulled the front brake lever to hold it. But the oily surface wouldn't hold and the bike slid off the ramp.

Al couldn't help. He had to operate the controls at the front behind the cab. Chance pushed again and this time the front wheel slid sideways and the bike almost went down. The heat intensified as the afternoon sun reached its desert peak. Both men began to sweat profusely. The officer in the office opened the door and looked in their direction.

Chance backed the bike off slowly, trying desperately to appear professional as he attempted to push the bike onto the ramp once more. Inside, panic was getting on the emotional elevator and pushing the button for the penthouse suite. "Don't you ever clean this sonuvabitch?" Chance muttered under his breath, as the officer stepped into the sun 25 yards away.

"Yeah, I do, but I picked up a wrecked Mercedes this morning and it dumped its entire oil supply onto the bed. Didn't have time to steam clean the bastard."

Chance pushed with all his might, holding the bike dead center and straight. The front wheel impacted the grating and rolled straight up. As the rear wheel hit, Chance threw his right leg over the saddle and sat down while applying the front brake. "Do it!" he said, and the Al threw the lift lever. The front wheel jerked, slid an inch on the oily steel surface, then stopped.

As the bike leveled, Chance dismounted and moved the Softail forward and secured it with a wooden chalk. Al moved swiftly around the bike, tossing Chance straps that he adeptly fastened while Al cinched each fiber tie.

The officer got several paces from the air-conditioned office and stopped. He could see the men working efficiently around the flatbed. The impound duty was one of the worst on the force and he couldn't wait for his time to be up. It was a boring, uneventful job, which took little effort, no intelligence and generally was a slap in the face. He wanted to move into the detective ranks quickly and this station wasn't furthering his career. Besides, he didn't need to work up a sweat in this humidity. He turned as he heard the phone in the office ringing.

Chance and Al both boarded the truck simultaneously and Al shoved it into gear. They rolled to the gate and Al waved at the officer as he reached for the phone. He picked up the receiver and said, "Hold please." Then he pushed the button to open the gate and Al pulled into the street.

Vince showered, changed clothes and hit the pavement for the rendezvous point. The rigid felt strange to Vince after riding the Softail for two years. He pulled into the gas station with his bedroll strapped to his back as Al pulled the tow truck behind the station. Vince refueled while chance unloaded the Stalker. Al watched from the cab as the two men switched and loaded their bikes, refueled, and put on their jackets, vests, gloves and shades.

Chance fired the rigid to life and pulled alongside the cab. "Al, we couldn't have made it without you." He waved and dropped the stroker into gear. Without waiting for a response, the two riders dropped out of the station and headed toward the freeway.

Al was two miles from the station when the Phoenix police pulled him over.

-Bandit

Back to Part 4 - Escape from L.A.....

Back to Stories on Bikernet....

Bikernet's Vince and Chance Feature Series Is Brought To You By: